The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame
by MadamHazel
Summary: When a bored Sherlock gets a case about a missing picture frame, he initially dismisses it. But there's more to this picture frame than meets the eye, and soon he and John are caught up in a race for their lives.
1. The Beginning

Title: The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Rating: K+ for thematic elements and brief language

Disclaimer: Don't own BBC Sherlock. While I'm fairly certain that Sherlock Holmes in itself is public domain, this particular show is owned by the BBC and created by Moffat and Gatiss, and they're both much better writers than I will ever be. Everything outside the show is mine.

A/N: This is set between The Blind Banker and The Great Game.

The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame

John could tell that Sherlock was getting dangerously bored. I mean, really dangerously bored, the kind where Sherlock would spend days lying on the couch bitching and moaning about everything under the sun, and John would spend his time alternatively with Sarah and guarding his technology zealously (John had taken to hiding his laptop around the flat in a vain attempt to keep Sherlock from finding it. Of course, Sherlock would always find it within the day, and so John would have to find a new hiding place. It had almost become a game with them).

These were the days where there would be a new body part in the kitchen every other day, and Mrs. Hudson refused to come up until all the mess was cleared away. John would apologize profusely, promise to make Sherlock clean it up, then spend two hours yelling at Sherlock before finally giving up and cleaning it himself.

It was only after John found a fully dissected pig on the kitchen table, it's organs residing in every appliance in the kitchen (John didn't even know you could fit a pig spleen in a toaster, and was not keen at all on figuring out how Sherlock did it), that John drew the final line.

He marched into the living room, where Sherlock was lying on the couch in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and said, "Sherlock, you need to get a case."

Sherlock flicked a bored look his way, then went back to staring at the ceiling.

John continued, "I'm serious. This is getting out of hand. Mrs. Hudson will kick us out if you're not careful."

Sherlock gave a disdainful snort. "She would never. She loves us."

"She might not when she finds the pig's liver in the blender. Are there seriously no cases for you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled himself up, pulling out the laptop that John had sworn he had brilliantly hidden behind the toilet.

"It's all a bunch of dull, stupid people with their dull, stupid problems," Sherlock said petulantly, "Are there no real criminals out there in London these days? Not one?"

John sighed and sat in his chair, giving a dour look at the laptop. Maybe next time he'd hide it behind the television instead. "What about that 'Moriarty' thing the cab driver said? Have you learned anything about that?"

Sherlock gave the irritable glare he always gave when he couldn't figure something out right away. "If he's really out there," Sherlock said, "He's covering his tracks very well. I can't find anything."

"So there's nothing?" John said, beginning to get desperate. He wasn't sure how much longer they could last in this purgatory of boredom.

Sherlock snorted, then tossed the laptop carelessly over to John. John scrambled to catch it and pulled it closer to him. He definitely needed to find better hiding places for this thing. He opened it, and found Sherlock's forum already up.

The newest entry read, _Need your help badly. Missing a very valuable picture frame. It might be stolen. Can we meet? Jerry Davis_

"Well, why don't you meet him?" John said, thanking whatever deities were out there (he was sure there had to be one who was specifically assigned to keep Sherlock from getting killed) that there was finally a case, no matter how petty.

Sherlock shot him a 'why are you so stupid?' glare, and said, "A picture frame? Hardly worthy of my talents. He's probably just lost it behind the sofa."

"But why is he so worried about a picture frame?" John insisted, desperate to get Sherlock out of the flat by any means necessary. "I mean, maybe it's really valuable. You should at least check it out, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock finally agreed to meet Jerry Davis at a café half a block away. Sherlock had argued that they could just as easily have Davis come to the flat, to which John had responded that they still had the dead pig in the kitchen and they didn't want to scare him off.<p>

To which Sherlock had respond that only John didn't want to scare him off and Sherlock couldn't care less, which had evolved into an hour long argument that culminated in John storming off to his room and finding that Sherlock had taken his laptop out from underneath the mattress.

Anyway, they were now sitting at a table in the window, staring out at the rainy street. Sherlock was lazily circling his spoon in the cup of tea that he hadn't taken a sip of, and John was poking at his unappetizing pastry with a pretentiously small fork.

The door to the café opened, and a small, timid-looking man wearing thick-rimmed glasses walked in, dripping wet and without an umbrella. The owner of the café shot him a dirty look which he didn't notice as he scurried over to the table and sat down with a squelch and a sigh of relief.

"I am so sorry I'm late," he said, with a rather flat-sounding accent, "I got caught up in traffic."

"Yes," Sherlock said disinterestedly, still circling his spoon, "I would imagine it's difficult getting used to driving on the left side of the road again after spending close to- what, ten years in America?"

"Ten years exactly," the man said, his gaping mouth making him look quite like a fish on a plate, "But how-"

"Your accent," Sherlock said, "As well as the fact that you don't have an umbrella, which also tells me that you live alone, since anyone with an ounce of sense would have told you to bring an umbrella when they're calling for rain."

"Oh," said the man, and John smiled to himself.

Sherlock finally deigned to look at the man, an eyebrow raised. "I assume you're Jerry Davis," he said.

The man gave a nervous little cough. "Yes, I am," he said, "And you're Sherlock Holmes?"

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled. Davis shot nervous look over at John (honestly, the man treated everything as though it were about to kill him. John was certain that if there was a sudden loud noise Davis would have a heart attack).

"This is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said by way of explanation, "He's a friend of mine."

"Colleague," John corrected.

Sherlock ignored him, as per usual. "Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of him."

"Of course, I understand," Davis said, looking as though he didn't understand at all.

After an awkward minute-long silence, in which Sherlock seemed content to stare unblinkingly at Davis, and Davis seemed too terrified to say anything at all, John said, "So, Mr. Davis, what can you tell us about your missing picture frame?"

Davis gave another nervous cough, and began. "Well, as soon as I moved back to London, my wife left me."

John opened his mouth to offer condolences, but Sherlock shot him a 'don't interrupt the exposition' look.

Davis continued. "I had a picture frame among my private possessions which my mother gave me. It isn't very valuable, but…it's sentimental. Anyway, after she left me as I was unpacking, I noticed that the picture frame was missing."

Sherlock's eyes had lit up, and he was looking at Davis with genuine interest now. He leaned forward in his chair, getting almost uncomfortably close to the other man. Davis leaned back a little and cast an imploring glance at John.

"Sherlock-" John began, hoping to distill at least a little social propriety into Sherlock, but he was interrupted by the detective himself.

"What was the picture in the frame?" Sherlock asked, sitting so far on the edge of the chair that if he moved forward even a little bit he would fall off. Not that that would happen. Sherlock seemed to possess an almost supernatural grace that prevented him from looking uncool in any situation.

Davis cast another imploring glance at John, then replied, "A photo of our wedding. It was in Los Angeles, and the photo was taken near the sea. But-but since my wife left me, I don't care about the photograph, just the frame. I think she stole it."

"Do you?" Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up even more, "That's interesting. That's _very_ interesting. Do tell more."

John didn't think it sounded that interesting. It sounded like a fairly ordinary domestic squabble to him, but then Sherlock had always had peculiar tastes in what interested him. Hence the dissected pig on the kitchen table.

Davis looked, if possible, even more nervous and agitated than when he had walked in. "There's really not much more to say," he almost whispered, "My ex-wife now stays at a hotel downtown. Erm, her name is Irene. Irene Adler, since she's using her maiden name now." He scribbled the address on a napkin, and handed it over to Sherlock, who ignored it completely. John picked up the napkin instead and placed it near his plate.

Sherlock gave one of his trademark 'I'm cleverer than you' smirks, and abruptly leaned back in his seat. "Very well, Mr. Davis," he said in an obnoxiously self-satisfied manner, "I'll get to work on your case right away. Thank you for your time."

As soon as Davis scurried out the door with a sigh of relief, John heaved a sigh of his own and looked over at Sherlock.

"You seem overly interested for a simple domestic issue," he remarked, finally taking a bite of the soggy pastry in front of him. It was disgusting.

"I'm not interested in a simple domestic issue," Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up in the manner they always did when he had found something really juicy. "What I am interested in is why he lied to us about everything he said."

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, in the typical way he did when John was being particularly obtuse (in Sherlock's opinion, of course). "He said he had a wife, but there was no ring on his left ring finger."

"Maybe he took it off. She did leave him, you know."

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering manner. "There wasn't even a mark, John, that he had been wearing a ring. The finger looked like it had never had a ring on it in his life. Also he said the photograph was of his wedding in Los Angeles. We know he wasn't married, and he certainly has never been in Los Angeles, he's as pale as alabaster. He probably spent the majority of his time in America in a cloudy area, most likely somewhere in Washington state."

John gaped in astonishment, the way he often did when Sherlock went on one of his tangents. Sherlock finished up his explanation with, "A man who would lie about so many things, especially having a wife, wouldn't care about sentimentality. So, if he doesn't want the picture frame back for sentimental reasons, what does he want it back for?"

He stared at John expectantly. John blinked. "Erm," he said, "Because it's valuable?"

Sherlock gave a brilliant grin and said, "Excellent, John! We'll make a detective of you yet."

John said, "Thank-" but Sherlock had already grabbed his coat and scarf and raced out of the café.

John sighed.

A/N: This is going to be fairly short. Short-ish. Maybe. I have no idea.


	2. The Rising Action

Title: The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Rating: K+ for thematic elements and brief language

Disclaimer: Don't own BBC Sherlock. While I'm fairly certain that Sherlock Holmes in itself is public domain, this particular show is owned by the BBC and created by Moffat and Gatiss, and they're both much better writers than I will ever be. Everything outside the show is mine.

A/N: The plot thickens rapidly, and there's a surprise guest! Several, actually. This story is kind of making me geek out.

* * *

><p>John finally caught up to Sherlock dashing down the street, looking particularly heroic with his coat flying out behind him.<p>

"Where are we going?" John asked, panting a bit.

Sherlock, not even bothering to look at him or apologize for so rudely abandoning him at the café, replied, "We need to go to Irene Adler's hotel room and look through it while she's not there." He ignored John's protest, and continued, "I swear I've heard that name before…"

"Come to think of it, so have I," John said thoughtfully, deciding not to comment on the breaking and entering, "Hold on, she's a singer!"

Sherlock, still dashing along, cast an incredulous look at John.

John, somehow feeling a need to defend himself, said, "It's true. Sarah has a CD of hers."

Sherlock snorted with the attitude of a man superior to all others. "Well, she's obviously not his ex-wife, then. A man like that, getting a popular singer?" He snorted again. "Hardly."

"It's possible," John said, more for the sake of arguing than in actual disagreement.

Sherlock recognized it for what it was (as he always did) and refused to deign it with a return remark. "We still need to find out how I've heard of her," he said, "I rather doubt it's because of her singing."

"You think she's a criminal?" John said, recognizing this line of thought.

"Of course."

John sighed. "Of course," he repeated under his breath, "Everyone's a criminal."

"They usually are," Sherlock said, even though John had been speaking quietly. "Are you coming?"

"Why not?" John sighed, "It's not as though I have anything else to do." After a period of silence, in which John trailed after Sherlock, trying to ignore the coat that kept hitting his shins every time the wind blew, John had a thought. "Do you even know where her hotel is?"

Sherlock paused. He coughed. He adjusted his scarf.

"You don't, do you?" John crowed, "You just dashed out of there without even glancing at the hotel and room number."

Sherlock shot him a silent but very deadly glare. John ignored it. He had been on the receiving end of that glare quite a few times, the most recent being when he had decided to take the pig intestines out of the freezer to put in a steak. He was pretty sure Sherlock still hadn't forgiven him for that one.

"Fortunately," John said, reaching inside his coat, "You have a levelheaded friend like me along with you to keep track of those things." He held out the napkin that Davis had written on and held it out, a triumphant smile on his face.

Sherlock snatched it from him irritably, looked at it, then shoved it into a pocket. He glanced at John, said, "Your sister is cheating on her new girlfriend," then strode off.

John took a while to register what he had just said, then ran off after him. "Hold on," he said, "What do you mean by that? Sherlock!"  
>But Sherlock ignored him and kept walking forward.<p>

* * *

><p>The hotel Irene Adler was staying at was incredibly posh. The carpeting was lush and thick, the lighting was tasteful and ambient, and even the doors to the rooms looked like to entrance to a prince's chamber.<p>

Both Sherlock and John ignored these niceties, however, as they walked unobtrusively down the corridor, looking for Irene Adler's room.

"What do we do if she's here?" John whispered. The halls seemed to demand a sort of respect.

Sherlock, of course, felt no such respect and answered in his normal voice, "We'll improvise, John," he said with an odd air of pleasure, "How are your acting skills?"

"Rubbish," said John immediately, still keeping his voice low, "As you well know."

Sherlock smirked, and stopped in front of a door. "This is it," he said, "624." And he knocked.

Almost immediately the door was opened, and John's jaw dropped in disbelief. Even Sherlock raised an eyebrow. For standing in the door was, John swore at the time, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Luxurious black hair cascaded down her shoulders, just reaching the (very low-cut) neckline of her dress. Her eyes were dark and exotic-looking, her lips were large and luscious, and her body had curves "in all the right places," as the saying goes.

Sherlock said, all business, "Miss Adler? I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Doctor John Watson."

John recovered minimal use of his faculties and stepped forward, holding out his hand and saying, "Hello. You can call me John."

Irene and Sherlock looked at him with identical blank expressions on their faces, and John shoved his hand awkwardly into his coat pocket. Irene turned back to Sherlock.

"Jerry sent you, didn't he," she said with the same flat-sounding accent as Davis, "About the picture frame."

"Yes," Sherlock said, "About the picture frame." He didn't reveal anything else.

"Well, you can tell him that unless he pays his dues, he's not getting anything from me," she said irritably, "Unless he mans up, he'll have to do without." Noticing John peering over her shoulder into the room, she added, "And no, you can't search my room."

"We wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock said dryly, "I wouldn't want to encroach upon your privacy." John rolled his eyes when he was pretty sure that neither of the two were looking at him.

Irene's attitude suddenly changed, and she adopted a seductive position. "Unless," she said, her attention completely on Sherlock. John felt a bit like he was blending into the wallpaper. Irene continued, "Unless you wanting to come into my room for a completely differently different reason." She leaned forward so her breasts were just barely brushing against Sherlock's chest.  
>Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well," he said, "I think we've got what we wanted, thank you. I'll tell Jerry what you said as soon as we get back."<p>

And with that he set off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. It took a long moment, in which Irene Adler had smirked at him and shut her door, before John remembered that he was supposed to do the same.

He caught up to Sherlock on the landing below, and said breathlessly, "That is one hell of a woman."

Sherlock smirked, not slowing down his pace for John. "You're absolutely right, John," he said absently, with the satisfied air of having figured something out that was bugging him, "She is one hell of a woman."

"You've figured something out," John said, "What?"

"I believe," Sherlock said with a flourish, "That Jerry Davis is not what he seems."

"Alright," John said impatiently, "We've established that. What else?"

"Not yet," Sherlock said, "I have to confirm something first. I'm going to visit Lestrade." He barreled on before John could interrupt, "You're not going with me. I need you to go back to the flat and look up all you can on Irene Adler and Jerry Davis. Fan sites, newspaper, social networks, anything. Also, there's a file on your laptop called 'known criminals.' See if you can find Adler on there."

John wondered how Sherlock had found his laptop yet again. Sherlock, sensing his thoughts, shot an amused look back at John. "If you don't want me to find your laptop," he said, "Don't hide it behind the refrigerator."

John rolled his eyes and sighed again.

* * *

><p>An hour or so later, back at the flat, John was looking through fan sites on the internet and trying to ignore the stench of the dead pig. Mrs. Hudson had refused to go near the flat while that thing was still there, and so John had to make do with some stale crackers he had found in an unused drawer for sustenance.<p>

Sherlock suddenly bounded in, his eyes bright with excitement and just a hint of nastiness. Without preamble he sat on the arm of John's chair, leaned over his shoulder and said, "Look up the top news story from a few days ago."

John did so, and read the headline. "Genius Diamond Robbery Shocks America," he said, "What's that got to do with anything?"

Sherlock jumped off the couch and started pacing around the room. John sat back, realizing that Sherlock was about to go into a long lecture on how clever he was. He rather wished he had more tea.

"Everything, John!" Sherlock was saying, "It has everything to do with anything. Don't you see?"

John blinked and looked at him blankly.

"Oh, what's the use," Sherlock muttered to himself, "Sometimes I forget how dense you are."

"Thanks," said John, "What's your point, Sherlock? Or are you just going to pace around and insult my intelligence all day."

"Alright," Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh, "Let's add up the pieces. Priceless diamonds go missing in America. Jerry Davis and Irene Adler have spent the last ten years in America. The authorities think that the diamonds must have been smuggled into England. Our lovely couple has just moved back to England with a very important picture frame."

"So," John said, piecing it all together in his head, "You think that Irene Adler and Jerry Davis stole the diamonds and smuggled them back to England in the picture frame."

"That's exactly what I think," Sherlock said, looking extremely smug.

"Well, that makes sense," John said, pulling up a tab at his computer, "Because Jerry Davis works at the company whose diamonds were robbed. Look at his Facebook profile."

Sherlock looked at the profile and then crowed with delight. "Of course! Brilliant! He and Adler steal the diamonds, which is easy since he already knows everything about them. They put the diamonds in the picture frame, and travel back to England. But that's where it falls apart, because Adler takes the frame for herself. Davis knows he's up against something big and terrifying, so he goes to the smartest man in England to help him out- me."

John ignored Sherlock's arrogance, as he ignored so many of Sherlock's flaws, and said, "What's he up against that's so big and terrible? What else, besides Adler?"

Sherlock gave a grim smile. "Moriarty."

"Really?"

Sherlock nodded, saying, "Where I had heard Adler's name before was at the crime scene of one of the crimes that I'm certain Moriarty was involved in. Her status as a singer makes it ideal for her to travel around the world, committing crimes wherever she goes."

John shook his head. "A woman like that, a world-class criminal. Life's just not fair."

"True beauty isn't always on the outside, John," Sherlock said sagely. John looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"I got that off a fortune cookie," Sherlock admitted.

John rolled his eyes, then became serious again and said, "So, if Davis is going up against Moriarty, doesn't that mean that he's in danger?"

"Grave danger," Sherlock agreed, "We need to go talk to him now."

As John was gathering his coat (Sherlock had never taken his off), a voice came from the door that said, "I wouldn't recommend that."

John looked in the direction that Sherlock was already glaring in, and saw Mycroft standing there.

A/N: What's Mycroft doing there? How does Moriarty fit into all this? Will Hazel ever get off her butt and write more? Only time will tell!


	3. The Turning Point

Title: The Case of the Expensive Picture Frame

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Rating: K+ for thematic elements and brief language

Disclaimer: Don't own BBC Sherlock. While I'm fairly certain that Sherlock Holmes in itself is public domain, this particular show is owned by the BBC and created by Moffat and Gatiss, and they're both much better writers than I will ever be. Everything outside the show is mine.

A/N: I feel the need to point out that every time I see Martin Freeman in anything, I shriek his name, point at the screen and then flail wildly for a while. Man, am I going to have a hard time when The Hobbit comes out.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked acerbically. John walked over next to him, less as a show of strength and more making sure he was there to restrain Sherlock from doing anything rash.<p>

Mycroft glided into the flat and settled himself into John's chair, leaning his ever-resent umbrella against it and steepling his fingers. "I am here," he said in his usual measured tone, "To stop you from making a mistake that will get you killed. In other words, I am being a protective older brother."

John could have sworn he heard Sherlock growl deep in his throat.

"This is my case, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, "Stay out of it."

"On the contrary, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, "This was my case first. You have simply blundered into it, and as usual made a mess of everything."

This time Sherlock snarled, and threw himself onto the couch. "How is this your case? I would think that this is too small for you."

Mycroft's face suddenly turned very serious, and he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. "There is more going on than you realize," he said quietly, "And it is very dangerous. Trust me, Sherlock, for once in your life. Stay out of it."

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow and Mycroft sighed the weary sigh reserved specifically to older siblings. "I can see I won't convince you," he said, standing and collecting his umbrella, "And I can't give you any more information. But," he stopped at the door and turned around, "if you get yourself killed, I'm not the one who's going to explain it to Mummy."

And with that, he was gone, striding out the door in the dramatic manner that seemed reserved only to Holmeses.

Sherlock raced over to the window and watched for Mycroft's car to have disappeared completely down the street. As soon as he was certain of the absence of his brother, Sherlock turned to John with a huge, over-excited grin on his face.

John sighed, knowing that neither of them would be sleeping for the next few days.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, Jerry Davis was nowhere to be found. Sherlock and John checked everywhere, the contacts he had left with them, the hotel he was staying at, everywhere.<p>

"Sherlock," John finally said, after the second day again led to a dead end, "Maybe we should call the police in on this."

Sherlock shot him a dark glare, pacing up and down the flat. "Not likely," he muttered, "They'd just muck it up, tramping about with no regard for subtlety, and meanwhile the other diamond thieves know we're on to them and successfully escape out of the country, never to be heard from again."

"That's a worst case scenario," John protested, but Sherlock ignored him.

"And besides," he continued, talking more to himself than John, "we don't even know if there's been a crime committed. Maybe he got the picture frame back, doesn't want us to know about the diamonds. Maybe Irene Adler got to him first, warned him not to talk to us again."

"Maybe we should go see her again," John interjected, in an attempt to not feel so much like an inanimate object. Of course, the suggestion had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she was gorgeous. Nothing at all.

Sherlock eyed him like he knew John's line of thought (he probably did), then pursed his lips in thought. "That's an excellent idea, John," he said, "Let's go." And he was bounding out again, before John's mind got the chance to catch up to the fact that Sherlock actually agreed with him.

He eventually got himself together, and dashed after Sherlock, catching him outside just as he was calling a cab.

In the cab they sat in comfortable silence, Sherlock staring out the window deep in thought, and John staring out the window trying to mimic his friend's deep thoughts about the case. When they arrived at the hotel John made to walk directly to the lift, but Sherlock stopped him and pulled him over to the receptionist's desk.

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, his attitude completely changing to an almost normal person, "I'm looking for a friend of mine, Irene Adler. Is she in?"

"Would you like to call up to the room and ask?" the receptionist, a nice, pretty girl in her twenties said politely.

"That would be lovely," Sherlock said with a nauseating grin.

"And what name shall I give her?"

"John Watson," Sherlock said without a trace of remorse, and John failed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

As the receptionist called up to Irene Adler's room, John tried to convey the phrase 'what the hell are you doing?' with only his eyes, and Sherlock didn't reply, choosing instead to look unbearably smug, as he usually did when he thought he was being brilliant.

The receptionist's voice cut in on their silent conversation as she said, "I'm sorry, she doesn't seem to be in right now. Would you like for me to leave a message?"

"No," Sherlock said, dropping the nice-guy act and striding away, John following after.

"So now what?" John said, choosing to ignore Sherlock's deception and name-appropriation in favor of the bigger picture.

"Do you feel up to some breaking and entering?"

"Only if you let me in this time." Their eyes met, and they shared a grin.

Irene Adler's room was surprisingly easy to break into, a fact that was soon explained by the complete emptiness of the room.

"You sure this is the right room?" John asked, looking around.

Sherlock scowled, scanning the room with his well-practiced eye. "Of course it is," he said, "But she wouldn't have anything valuable out in plain sight. If the picture frame is here, then it's very well hidden. Unlike your laptop."

"You found it again?" John said in disbelief, "But it was perfectly hidden!"

"It was under a sofa cushion, John, a toddler could have found it."

John muttered meaningless insults under his breath as Sherlock slowly eyed the room. In a sudden startling burst of speed he started searching the room with reckless abandon, checking mattresses, cabinets, under the beds, in the bathrooms…it was when he started unscrewing the light-switch covers that John said, "You don't seriously think a picture frame would fit in there, do you?"

"We must look at all possibilities, John," Sherlock said, "Not everyone is as obvious as you."

"Well, maybe that's what she's counting on," John suggested, already preparing himself for the derision of his friend, "You not expecting her to be obvious."

"Don't be ridiculous, that's-" Sherlock stopped himself, and his eyes widened as his incredible brain raced. "Brilliant!" he cried, and raced into the bathroom.

"Always," John muttered under his breath, amiably traipsing after Sherlock into the bathroom, where the detective had thrown open the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. His face fell when there was nothing there but a slip of paper.

Sherlock picked the piece of paper up, and John tried to peer over his shoulder to see it as well. Since Sherlock was much taller than him, it didn't work out very well, so he waited for Sherlock to finish looking at it.

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he thrust the paper at John as he stalked out of the bathroom. John looked down, and saw that it was a photograph of Adler and someone he didn't know, but looked vaguely familiar, in a…compromising position.

"Read the back," Sherlock called from the room, where it sounded like he was moving things around in a fit of pique (he tended to rearrange furniture when he was upset. One time John came home to find the kitchen table upside down in the middle of the living room, with the sofa and John's chair leaning precariously against the legs).

John turned the photograph over, and saw a note on the back.

_My dear Sherlock Holmes,_ it read,

_By the time you read this I will likely be out of the country. I'm sorry I couldn't experience the pleasure of your company one more time, but my employer warned me not to underestimate you. You won't find the picture frame anywhere here- it's safely with me, where you will never find it. _

_As an apology for that, I leave you the picture inside the frame. I have no need of it anymore. I wish you all the best, though it's certain I will never see you again._

_Love, Irene_

There was a lipstick kiss next to Adler's name. John walked back into the room, seeing Sherlock sitting on the bed which he had torn the stuffing out of earlier, the detective wearing a thoroughly disgruntled expression.

John was about to say something vaguely comforting, when he glanced down at the photograph again and gave a start of recognition. The man in the photograph was a well-known politician, and a married one at that.

"This is-" John began, but stopped.

Sherlock nodded, still with his unhappy expression.

"But why would she no longer need a blackmail photograph?" John asked, holding it only with his thumb and forefinger, as if it were dirty.

"That all depends," Sherlock said dully, "On who her employer is."

"Moriarty?"

"Maybe."

They stayed there a little longer in thoughtful silence, before Sherlock abruptly stood up. As John shot him a questioning look, Sherlock declared, "It's no use sitting around here. Jerry Davis is still missing."

"Wouldn't he be with Adler?" John asked, coming up to stand by Sherlock.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock said, a little bit of a glint coming back into his eyes as he explained his reasoning. "I have reason to believe he's still in London, and-"

His dissertation was interrupted by his phone ringing. Sherlock pulled it out and glared irritably at it, but when he saw the caller ID his expression quickly changed.

"It's Jerry Davis," he said softly, and answered it, putting the call on speaker phone. "Hello?" he said.

"_Mr. Holmes,_" Jerry Davis' voice gasped. His breath came in ragged pants and his voice was hoarse. "_Please help me, I-_"

The connection crackled, and they lost part of what he was saying. "_- It's all my fault, I'm sorry,_" Davis was saying, as his voice became audible again.

"Where are you?" Sherlock said, his gaze intense.

"_I'm at-_" the connection crackled again, and they lost his address. John swore. The connection came back again, "_-and he's got a gun, and I think he's going to shoot me, oh god, I never meant it to get this far, I'm sorry, I just wanted some money-_"

"Repeat your location," Sherlock said, "We'll help."

"_I'm in a church at-oh god no, I'm sorry, I wasn't-_"There was the sound of a single gunshot, and the line went dead.

A/N: I regret nothing.


End file.
